


These Small Hours Still Remain

by KaleidoScopeOfIce



Category: Antisepticeye - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Depressing, Homeless AU, Homelessness, Living on the streets, M/M, Modeling, Nude Modeling, Panic Attacks, Rain, Rainy city, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, Survival, feelings of failure, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-19 06:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14231199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaleidoScopeOfIce/pseuds/KaleidoScopeOfIce
Summary: Our lives are made in these small hours, these little wonders, these twists and turns of fate.Time falls away, but these small hours still remain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, my first ever proper Janti fic? Say it isn't so!

It was always raining.

In a city like this, rain was more of a regularity than an inconvenience to the people who lived here. It was almost like the city itself was cursed. And maybe if it continued to rain almost every day like this, the entire city would be flooded, and people would still be going about their daily lives, not even having noticed.

Jack gave a hoarse cough.

He pulled his hood tighter over his head, trying to shield himself as best as he could from the downpour. Though he was partially covered by a fire escape next to a large apartment building, leaning against the brick wall, rain would still find its way through the cracks and drip down endlessly onto him.

For Jack, this situation was all too familiar.

He usually did his best to find shelter whenever the clouds would bring rain, but he had been caught off guard while rummaging through the local trash bins for food. Before he knew it, the downpour started, and he had to quickly snag a soggy, half-eaten Big Mac before hiding from the rain. He grimaced slightly at the texture of the old, wet food on his tongue. Digging through trash cans and bins for food was never really the best idea. Often Jack would just try and buy himself something from a cheap-ass convenience store. That is, if he had enough money. His last few attempts to get coins from passerbys hadn't gone well, and now he was completely out again. He wouldn't dare approach the other homeless folk for cash. He knew they had it just as rough, and he sure as hell didn't want to take advantage of them, especially since he was in the same boat.

Jack himself had been homeless for almost a year now. One might think that with it being that long, surely you'd get used to digging through trash for food or sitting on the sidewalk, asking for handouts. But every day was a reminder to Jack to why he had failed in his life. Why he had ended up on the streets, like some stray dog that had been abandoned by its family.

Jack shivered, bringing his hands to his mouth and trying his best to warm them up. He'd had a pair of makeshift gloves not too long ago. Though those had been stolen recently by a couple of asshole teenagers. Jack lifted his head, pushing his long matted hair to the side and seeing that the rain was starting to let up. He peeled himself off of the brick wall and exited the alley, wanting to make his way back to his usual stretch of the city. This part of town wasn't exactly the greatest, but it was where some of the wealthier lived. Most homeless folk would roam this area, hoping to get bigger handouts. But as Jack learned, most rich people tended to be snobs, who stuck their noses in the air and didn't care about anything but themselves.

As he walked along the sidewalk, his eyes drifted to a massive billboard sign that was hung up above the bustling traffic.

It was an advertisement for Calvin Klein, with a male model plastered on the front. And the model, for some scary reason, almost looked completely identical to Jack. Well, that is, if Jack himself actually looked like a model and not a pathetic street rat. Jack had seen that billboard awhile ago. Pictures of it were all around the city, and the first time he had seen it, he'd nearly given himself a heart attack. The model in the ad looked like a fancier yet more edgier version of Jack. But then the Irishman had to remind himself that people could practically do anything with Photoshop these days. A lot of work probably went into altering those ads to make them look as perfect as possible. And so Jack chose not to worry about it.

It was a long trek back to his usual street. He kept his hands in his pockets, occasionally adjusting his tattered backpack and looking over his shoulder, making sure that he wasn't being followed by one of the usual gangs that roamed this area. His task now, though, was finding a decent place to sleep for the night. He used to have a large cardboard box to sleep in, but after a violent tussle with another homeless person who was very much under the influence, Jack easily lost it. He had to be careful which area he chose to stay the night in. Most of the folks residing here were friendly, however sometimes a few gangs would prowl the area. Jack knew the areas where all the drug dealing happened. He did his best to stay away from such places, not wanting to risk getting his ass handed to him or even slaughtered in the process.

There was a small wooden bench, that Jack found to be shockingly empty. Most of the time, anyone who lived on the streets would gladly take to sleeping on a bench than on the cold hard ground. But as that thought crossed Jack's mind, he frowned. If he took this bench, then no doubt any one of the other homeless folk would have no place to sleep tonight. So the Irishman sighed, and managed to worm his way _under_ the bench, leaving the actual seat open for any who may want to crash on it for the night. The space underneath the bench was pretty cramped, but it was big enough for Jack to curl up under and rest his head against his backpack. At least he would be hidden from any of the gangs wandering about.

Jack yawned, trying to stretch a little bit before making himself comfortable. He willed his tired eyes to shut, as the sound of the gentle rain lulled him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for this story, I chose to give Anti a bit of a different appearance so he can stand out more from Jack. If you're curious, here's the link of the drawing I did of him for this story http://kalehdo.tumblr.com/post/172723519120/currently-working-on-a-story-featuring-antil-but

“Mr. Connolly?”

“What?”

“We've finished with the shoot, and all the photos have been reviewed and approved by the director for tomorrow. You can take the rest of the day off if you wish.”

Anti gave a disinterested sigh, closing his phone and going over to retrieve his clothes that were draped across a chair. “Fine then. Not like I have anything better to do for the rest of the day.”

The model haphazardly grabbed his suit, not caring if he wrinkled the attire as he slipped back into the slightly stuffy clothing, dressing right in front of the female assistant who couldn't seem to help but oogle. Anti was used to it. When you're a model working for Calvin Klein, you start realizing that dressing and undressing in front of your co-workers no longer becomes awkward. He adjusted his forest green tie, trying to straighten out his now mangled dark grey suit, before depositing his phone into his pocket and walking off.

“So...we'll see you tomorrow, yes?” the woman asked as Anti was almost to the elevator.

“Unless I end up dead the next morning.”

The elevator doors closed.

\-----

Anti aimlessly scrolled through his phone, lounging in the backseat of his Lexus LS, while his driver silently drove him back to his apartment. Another day, another dollar, Anti told himself. Well, more like thousands of dollars, but the young man wasn't necessarily phased by the wealth he was currently blessed with. Sure, being a model paid handsomely well, but it was a very lonely job...accompanied by a very lonely life.

Anti didn't have any real friends.

He never considered his co-workers and the people he worked with during shoots to be his friends, and he had no family that he was close to. Plus, his social skills were rather...lacking. He wasn't the friendliest of people, and he wasn't one to spend the night out on the town, partying or drinking. Every day seemed to be the same, one after another. Nothing really changed. Anti's routine consisted of waking up, going to work for either photoshoots or tv and magazine inteviews, coming back home, eating dinner, and then going to sleep.

And Anti honestly found himself growing sick and tired of it. In fact, he had been considering quitting his job all together, maybe perhaps moving to another part of town, or to another state entirely.

He gave a tired if not frustrated groan, shutting his phone off and tossing it to the side, before letting his eyes drift to the streets as the car came to a halt at a stoplight. They were crossing through the seedier side of town. Anti often paid no attention to the drug dealers picking fights, or of the concubines looking for a decent fuck. The homeless especially he ignored. And they were all the same. Old, bitter folks who were only looking for handouts to feed whatever addiction that was keeping them on the streets. There was no point in reaching out to any of them. They were all trash.

Anti leaned slightly against the window, his breath causing the glass to fog a bit, as he watched people casually walking up and down the streets; umbrellas in hand and completely lost in their own reality.

Until something caught the model's eye.

There was a man, huddled on the ground, right next to a popular coffee shop. Anti caught a glimpse of his face, watching as the man raised his head up a bit to wipe at his red nose. This person looked young. VERY young. Too young, in fact, to be living out on the streets. The man's hair was a rat's nest, and his beard clung to his face like some kind of sci-fi parasite. He had on a flimsy jacket, that Anti could see was already soaked through due to the rain, and aside from the clothes on his back, the man seemed to possess only a tattered backpack. Anti watched him cup his hands together, obviously trying to keep warm. There was a small, wet piece of cardboard sitting at the man's feet, with writing on it.

It said “Please help me”.

And in that moment, Anti felt his heart nearly seize. He watched that man. He watched him even as the car began to pull away.

They had traveled less than a block, when Anti gave an order to his driver.

“Turn the car around.”

“I'm sorry, sir?”

“Turn the car around. Now.” He was firm about it, waiting as the driver was able to do a full U-turn, before heading back down the street they came from. “Park right over there. I won't be long,” Anti directed as he grabbed his umbrella.

“Sir, where are you going?” the confused driver asked as he pulled the car up to the sidewalk and switched on his hazards.

“Just keep the car running.”

\------

Jack shivered horribly, trying to rub his upper arms for warmth as the thirtieth customer of the coffee shop exited the building and smacked him with the opening door. This was starting to become pointless. He had a feeling that camping out at a popular place like this would be a bad idea, and wouldn't be a good place for handouts. Truth be told, he just wanted a nice hot cup of...something. Anything to take his mind off of the godforsaken cold. His teeth chattered, and he blew into his hands again. They felt like icicles at this point, almost numb. The rain continued to pour down onto him, his jacket no longer protecting him from the wet as it was now completely drenched. Jack figured that if he waited another ten minutes, then maybe, just maybe...someone would be kind enough to spare him a dollar, or even twenty five cents.

He clenched his eyes shut, shivering hard.

When suddenly the rain stopped.

Wait, what?

Jack opened his eyes, and looked up.

There was a man standing in front of him, holding out his umbrella enough so that it covered the both of them.

Jack's breath caught in his throat. 

This wasn't just some stranger. 

This was the very man he had seen on the Calvin Klein posters all over the city. And he looked...very different up close. His skin was the color of wet sand, and it made the emerald green of the top half of his hair stand out rather proudly. He wore a proper business suit, and Jack almost missed the small knife-shaped pin sitting on his chest. The black gauges in his ears he hadn't been expecting to see. But what seemed to be currently captivating Jack the most were the model's eyes. They were blue and green. The purest form of heterochromia. And they stared down at Jack, making him feel like he was being judged by God himself.

But...why was this man here?

Jack tried to speak. “Uh...um...”

“C'mon,” the stranger spoke, motioning his head in the direction behind him. His voice was rough, but there was a youthful energy hidden amongst it.

“W-What? C-Come where?”

“I can't keep my driver waiting all day, kid. Are you coming or not?”

Jack's mind was racing. He knew better than to get into a random stranger's car, but what would a model want with him?

“I-I don't...I don't understand.”

He saw the tan man sigh. “Do you want to sleep out in the cold and fucking catch your death? Or do you want to be indoors?”

Jack gave a nervous gulp. He really REALLY didn't wanna be out here in the rain, freezing his ass off. But he also didn't know where the hell this man would take him if he agreed to go with him.

Well...being indoors would be a much more welcome relief than staying where he was currently at. Hell, just being in the car might be nice. Jack steadied himself with a shaky breath, before grabbing his backpack and carefully getting to his feet.

“Let's go,” the mysterious man stated, starting off down the street. Jack hoistened his bag around his shoulder and quickly followed behind, wanting to stay under the man's umbrella. He caught sight of a very fancy car parked not too far down the street, causing him to stop in his tracks.

The stranger approached the car and opened one of the doors.

He motioned for Jack to get in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter is a little short. Trying to get the main details of the story out of the way before focusing on the actual plot.

As Jack plopped himself down into his seat, he was suddenly aware of another pair of eyes on him. The driver of the car was looking over his shoulder at him, with a rather peculiar expression. Jack was quick to advert his gaze, suddenly feeling more embarrassed than anything. He nearly jumped when he heard the other stranger settle into the car and close the door.

“Um...where to, sir?” the driver asked, sounding unsure.

“Home, of course,” the model replied, leaning back in his seat.

There was a moment of silence, before the driver seemed to hesitantly comply, putting the car back in motion.

Meanwhile, Jack was a bundle of nerves. He was sitting in an extremely fancy car, driven by an obviously very wealthy man. And this man was...taking him back to his place? Jack thought of every scenario that this could go horribly wrong. Was this man just gonna drive him to somewhere out of sight and kill him? Was he going to dump him at a prostitution ring? Was he going to drive him out to the middle of nowhere and just abandon him? The more and more he thought about it, the more scared Jack became.

And the stranger noticed.

“Relax, will ya?” he spoke. “You look like I'm taking you to fucking jail.”

“I-I'm sorry, I'm just...really confused,” Jack replied, holding his backpack close to his chest. “What do you...want with me?”

“What makes you think I want something from you?”

Jack flinched at the tone of the model's voice. “S-Sorry...”

“Do you always stutter like this? It's kind of annoying.”

When Jack didn't reply, the stranger gave an irritated sigh. “What's your name, kid? Unless you want me to guess it.”

“Huh? Oh uhh...it's Sean. But you can just call me Jack.”

The model raised a skeptical eyebrow. “...Why that name in particular?”

“I'd...rather not talk about it. Sorry...” Jack muttered, looking back out the window and watching the tall buildings roll by.

“Well then, if we're gonna be secretive about this, then you can just call me Anti,” the stranger replied, folding his arms.

“Anti? Is that your real name?”

“Of course it isn't,” the model snapped back, causing Jack to recoil further into his seat. Well, it was very certain that this stranger didn't seem to have a heart of gold. But if his attitude was this rotten...why did he even bother picking Jack up from the streets anyway? There had to be some motive behind this, the Irishman told himself.

The car suddenly pulled to a stop, and Jack looked past the rain-streaked window. They had arrived at a massive apartment complex that looked more like a fancy hotel than an actual place to live. When Anti exited the car, Jack figured he might as well do the same. Did Anti really live here? Before leaving though, Jack managed to give a friendly nod to the driver.

“Thank you,” he said.

The driver looked slightly surprised at the statement, but nonetheless smiled and nodded back.

The trek up to Anti's place was awkward at best, with the two of them being quiet as mice in the elevator. Anti led Jack to a very large door, unlocking it and opening it, before motioning Jack to step inside. As Jack walked in, he swore he could've fainted on the spot. He'd seen his fair share of apartments, some ritzy and some mediocre. But what he had stepped into didn't even look like an apartment. It was like a whole damn house for the president! There was a large mahogany table in the dining room, and the kitchen itself looked like a 5 star restaurant, complete with stunning marble counters and a massive refridgerator. The living room was just as jaw-dropping. There was a massive wrap-around couch, colored a fine black leather, and a flat-screen tv propped up on the wall. Jack surely expected to see a butler or maid of some sort come to greet him, but he realized that as fancy and simple as the place looked, it seemed rather...empty.

Did Anti really live here by himself?

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he saw Anti brush past him, heading to what he assumed was the model's bedroom. He stayed standing in the living room, clutching onto his backpack and surveying his surroundings some more. Okay, so Anti wasn't going to kill him in some mysterious fashion. That answered one question. But Jack still couldn't help but feel so out of place in this situation.

Anti emerged from his bedroom with a pair of neatly folded clothes. He tossed them to Jack, who nearly dropped them in the process.

“Bathroom's over there,” Anti stated, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at another door. “Go ahead and shower, and don't drip on the floor. I'll cook something up.”

“O-Okay, thank you,” Jack replied, heading towards the bathroom, head ducked low.

He was more than eager to take a shower, considering he hadn't had one in months.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get this chapter up before my birthday, so have some feels ya'll!

It was so easy to get lost in the hot spray of water that beat down against his tired back. Jack felt like he could've stayed in that shower forever, just standing there and soaking, letting the warm water work out all of the months worth of painful knots in his shoulders and neck.

Until Jack realized that he was probably wasting water and increasing Anti's water bill the longer he stayed in the shower.

After grabbing a clean, fuzzy towel and drying himself down, Jack's attention was caught by the fogged up mirror.

He stared at his own blurry reflection.

Part of him wanted to reach out, to wipe away the clutter and see just how much his appearance had deteriorated over time. His fingers hovered over the glass, shaking. Did he really want to see just how pathetic he looked?

Jack shook his head. No. He couldn't bear to see just how horribly he had fallen. He grabbed the clothes Anti had given him, taking note that they were solid black, like most of Anti's apartment. He slipped on an oversized sweater and a pair of baggy but comfy sweatpants. The clothing was loose-fitting, but it still kept Jack warm. After brushing out his messy hair and making sure he wasn't dripping anymore water, the Irishman quietly padded his way to the kitchen, where he could hear the sound of something sizzling on a pan.

Anti's back was to him, and the model appeared to have changed into comfier clothes while Jack had been showering. He was wearing a black t-shirt now, that seemed to hug his upper body a bit too perfectly, along with black skinny jeans that had slightly obscene rips on the backs of his thighs. Jack adverted his eyes, and sat himself down on one of the stools by the counter. His nose caught the scent of fresh spices, causing him to sneeze.

“Hope you're not allergic to chicken,” Anti suddenly spoke, poking at the cooking slab of meat.

Jack sniffled. “No no, sorry, the smell was just...a bit much for me.”

Silence settled over the two men yet again, aside from the sizzling of the chicken. The awkwardness of the situation was nearly suffocating. Jack nervously tugged at the long sleeve of his sweater, trying to take his mind off of the moment as he let his eyes wander. He noticed right away that Anti seemed to have a vast collection of knives. Some were practically giant and looked more like miniature swords, while others were tiny and about the size of a pocket knife. What the hell did Anti need all those knives for anyway? Surely he didn't need that many to make meals with. Unless...they were for protection? But if they were for protection, then he wouldn't just keep them in his kitchen, would he?

Jack was startled out of his thoughts when the cold edges of a plate touched his fingers. And sitting on said plate was a large piece of perfectly cooked, well-seasoned chicken. Jack looked up at Anti with wide eyes, nearly matching the size of his plate.

“Wait...you made this for me?”

Anti rolled his eyes so hard that Jack thought they'd fall out of their sockets. “Of fucking course I did. What, did you think I was just gonna make some food for myself and eat it in front of you?”

“Well...” Jack stared at the food sitting before him.

Anti gave a tired sigh, and slid some eating utensils to the Irishman. “Just eat. I'm gonna go take a piss.”

\-----

Anti couldn't seem to wrap his head around this man's personality, as he stood in his bathroom and emptied his bladder. The guy seemed to have a constant guilty look to him, which made Anti believe that maybe Jack was running from the law? No. If he was, he wouldn't have put himself in a public place like that. Maybe he was ashamed of living on the streets. Anti didn't blame him. But Anti also didn't know just how long Jack had been living among the trash. For all the model knew, he could've been out there for years.

Heaving another heavy sigh, Anti zipped himself up and flushed, before walking back to the kitchen. He found Jack still sitting at the counter.

But was shocked to see an already empty plate.

“Did you just...eat all of that in a span of two minutes?” Anti asked incredulously. It had been a large piece of chicken too. How the hell had Jack eaten it that fast?

“Um...y-yeah,” Jack sheepishly admitted. “Sorry...”

Anti groaned. “You WILL be sorry when you have indigestion later. When was the last time you even had a proper meal?”

Jack grew quiet; his head lowered and shielding his eyes from the other man. “W-Well...I...uhh...I had a Big Mac that I...that I found in the t-trash....two days ago...”

Anti leaned in a bit closer, wanting a proper answer. “I didn't ask you what you had in the garbage. I'm asking you when you last sat down and ate a proper meal like this.”

Jack didn't speak now, noticing that Anti was leaning against the counter and wanting to look him directly in the eye. Anti was trying to keep his patience, waiting for an answer.

“It's....” Jack tried to get the words out. “It's...been a year.”

Anti's shoulders sagged slightly, and his hard expression shifted.

That long? He had gone _that_ long without an actual meal?

Anti's eyes suddenly burned and became blurry. He nearly scolded himself, and was quick to discreetly wipe his eyes, before pushing off of the counter and going to his fridge. Jack lifted his head, watching as Anti opened the refridgerator door and pulled out what appeared to be a cream-colored cake.

It wasn't just your average cake. It was cheesecake. And it looked like it had just been freshly made.

Anti set the dessert down in front of Jack, before grabbing one of his many knives and slicing into the cake with ease. He eased a piece onto a paper plate and pushed the plate to Jack.

“Here,” he said, watching as Jack grabbed his fork again and dug into the sweet. “SLOW bites this time. Unless you wanna be throwing it up later.”

Jack blushed, feeling more self-conscious now as he listened to the model and took a bite of the cake, slowly chewing. It was literally heaven on his taste buds. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten something so rich and so sweet. Anti watched the bliss spread across Jack's face, making sure the Irishman took his time in savoring the dessert. If Jack was already swimming in ecstasy after eating just a few bites of plain ol' cheesecake, then how would he react if Anti ended up cooking a full blown extravagent meal for him? Cooking up a piece of chicken was child's play. And Anti had never had someone to cook for.

He continued to watch Jack enjoy the dessert.

A very small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** this chapter contains **_sensitive material_** that may be triggering to some individuals. Please read with caution.
> 
> Starting to get a bit real here, folks.

Sleep didn't come easy for Jack that night.

Anti had given him a few soft blankets and sheets, along with a fluffy pillow, and informed him that he'd be sleeping on the couch. Jack didn't think to argue. It was much better than sleeping on the cold hard ground again.

He turned over to find a better sleeping position, rustling the sheets about and burying his face into his pillow. Now matter how hard he tried, how comfortable he tried to get, his brain just wouldn't shut down. There was too much going on within his mind. Too many thoughts and questions buzzing around like pesky flies. Why HAD Anti taken him off of the streets? Why had he opened his home to him? Why did he even care about his wellbeing?

Giving a small frustrated groan, Jack threw off his blankets and pulled himself off of the couch. Perhaps if he walked around a bit. Maybe that would help. Or perhaps a glass of water. He stretched, cracking his neck from side to side, and ran a hand through his long, unruly hair. He really needed a haircut...

A small light from outside caught his attention. It was coming from the back of the apartment, where the balcony was.

Was Anti out there?

Jack wasn't familiar with the man's sleeping habits. For all he knew, the model could be a nightowl and stay up for hours on end. Now curious, Jack made his way to the balcony. He approached a sliding glass door, seeing Anti on the other side of it. The green-haired man was leaning against the painted-white guard rail, with something caught between his fingers. Jack recognized it as a hookah. He watched as Anti took a drag from the spout, before exhaling out a large cloud of smoke. It slowly vanished within the night air.

Taking in a breath, Jack carefully pulled open the sliding door and stepped out onto the balcony. Anti didn't move, remaining where he was at, his front facing the massive city before him. Jack approached his side, leaving some distance between the two of them.

“....Please don't tell me you need me to sing you a lullaby to help you go to sleep,” Anti suddenly spoke, taking another drag from the hookah.

Jack couldn't help but shrink back a bit. Anti's attitude always seemed to catch him off guard, with his occasional harsh remarks and sarcastic statements.

“No, I don't...need a lullaby. Just having trouble sleeping, is all,” Jack replied.

“Really? I thought you'd sleep soundly on a surface such as a couch rather than cement.”

“The couch is nice, I just have a lot on my mind...”

“...Such as?”

Well this was new. Since upon meeting him, Anti didn't seem too interested in what was going on in Jack's mind. Now he was actually willing to listen. Jack took a steady breath, trying to keep his composure.

“....Why _did_ you pick me up off the streets? This city is full of people who are homeless and have nowhere to go, and yet you specifically chose me. Why?”

Anti took a long drag from the spout. “I was able to help you, so I did.”

“But why me specifically? You could've easily grabbed anyone else off the street, and given them this same treatment.”

“You make it sound like I'm a fucking doctor. Look, I just so happened to be driving back to my apartment, and I saw you looking like a sad sack of shit beside the coffee shop,” Anti replied back with a bit of snark. “Would you rather that I have just left you there? To freeze to death?”

“No, but you still haven't answered my question!” Jack exclaimed, gripping tightly on the guard rail. “Why did you pick me?”

Anti turned his head to the side, effectively cutting off eye contact, as he took another hit from his hookah. When the model remained silent, Jack bit his tongue. He knew he shouldn't be raising his voice at the man who opened his home up to him, but Anti was an extremely hard book to read. Sure, Jack was grateful for the hospitality, but he still had a sinking feeling that he was merely being used by this man.

But...used how? Anti hadn't made him do anything against his will. In fact, Anti had been giving him practically everything Jack needed. Food, a bed, a roof over his head. And Anti was asking for nothing in return.

Jack sighed. This was becoming confusing on a maddening scale.

“Unless you wanna wake up with an even more foul attitude in the morning,” Anti spoke. “Then I suggest you go back to bed.” He blew smoke into the air, before fixating his piercing mismatched eyes onto Jack.

The Irishman caught the hint, head lowered and metaphorical tail between his legs as he slinked off and went back inside without a fuss. Anti quietly groaned under his breath, before extinquishing his coals and putting his hookah away.

This was going to be a challenge.

\-----

Jack woke up to a very silent house.

He expected to maybe hear a coffee machine running, or the sound of a sink faucet being turned on, but it was eerily quiet. He figured that maybe Anti was still asleep. If that was the case, Jack would have to tread quietly. He hadn't exactly seen the model's angry side, but he was in no rush to find out, and if he accidentally woke him up, then Jack feared he'd never hear the end of it. Judging by Anti's personality, he seemed like the person who would easily get pissed off by being woken up by the slightest sound. Jack gave a nervous gulp as he silently passed by the door to Anti's room, tiptoeing to the bathroom and very carefully closing the door with a tiny click.

As he turned around, he froze.

There it was.

His reflection.

The first time he had seen himself in over a year. And he merely stood there; paralyzed with fear, staring back at his reflection as if it were monster.

But...it _was_ a monster.

Jack trembled like a leaf, his breaths quickening at the sight before him. Yet somehow he managed to force his feet to move forward. As he stepped closer to the mirror, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the hideous sight before him. His hair was the length of his shoulders, a complete disasterous mess as it fell in front of his right eye. His beard was much too thick to be considered comfortable or even publicly acceptable, and it looked like it was on the verge of taking over his entire face.

But his eyes...

Jack's eyes, once they had been blue. A bright vibrant blue that was full of life and energy and a promise for the future. Now? They were hollow. Hollow and depressingly grey, with no signs of life in them.

Jack felt his heart beginning to shatter.

Ever since he ended up alone, ever since the...accident, he had deteriorated into this. A poor pathetic excuse of what he could have been, could have become. He had fallen so far, so low into the dark trenches. He didn't deserve to be taken off of the streets. He didn't deserve Anti's kindness. He was a failure. A miserable, hopeless failure in life...and to his family.

It all came crashing down onto Jack at once. He slowly slid to the floor, his knees buckling as he openly wept.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter is super short. This is a scene that I had been wanting to get done for awhile now. Plus, needed to build some more tension.

Anti was pretty good at expecting things.

He had just wrapped himself up in his favorite dark green robe and opened the bathroom door.

However, he certainly didn't expect to find Jack sitting on the floor of his bathroom, sobbing like a child. The Irishman looked much more than just distraught; his body heaving with each sob and fruitfully trying to wipe at his eyes but failing as more tears ran down his face and soaked into his beard.

Anti wasn't going to ask him if he was okay. Obviously he wasn't, if he was just crying on the floor. Instead the model walked over, and gently took hold of Jack's arm, pulling the weeping man to his feet. Jack didn't even bother shrugging him off, still sobbing. He let himself be pulled up, as he was then sat down on the toilet. Anti nearly grimaced at the mess before him. He was no therapist, nor did he specialize in “comforting gestures”, but as he watched Jack fall apart in front of him, an idea came to him. He let Jack sit there, as he went to a few cabinets and dug through them. He pulled out a towel, a can of expensive shaving cream, a large electric razor, and a pair of fine scissors.

And he got to work.

Anti first started with Jack's hair, brushing it out and getting rid of all the tangles and developing mats. Jack didn't ask what he was doing. His loud, gross sobbing had quieted down a notch, but there were still tears falling from his eyes. He flinched, and gave a few yelps when Anti brushed a little too hard. The model apologetically ran his fingers across Jack's scalp, in an almost...soothing manner. It was unexpected, but the gesture seemed to calm the Irishman's heart a bit. Anti then grabbed the scissors, and began to snip away. He worked carefully, meticulously, making sure that every snip was precise and perfect, as Jack watched as more and more strands of his long hair fell to the floor.

When Anti appeared to be done with the scissors, he grabbed the shaving cream and proceeded to lather Jack's lower face with the substance, causing Jack to turn up his nose. It had been way too long since he last had a proper shave, and he had almost forgotten how weird it felt to have shaving cream coating the entire lower half of your face. Anti quietly fussed at him, complaining that his tears were messing up the shaving cream. Jack nearly jumped out of his skin though when the model switched the razor on. Anti ordered him to remain completely still, gently holding Jack's face in one hand and very carefully running the razor through his forest of a beard. It tickled a bit. Jack had to try his best not to squirm, or else risk getting a death glare from the model.

When Anti had finished, it finally dawned on Jack that he felt...lighter. Almost different, in a sense. He closed his eyes as Anti grabbed the towel and wiped down his face. Once that was done, Anti took hold of Jack's hand and began to lead him back to the mirror. 

Jack planted his feet, holding back.

He was afraid.

He didn't want to see how much he had changed...or much he hadn't changed. He was scared of still seeing that monster, that failure of a human being. But when Anti tugged on his arm again, Jack took a deep breath, and approached the mirror.

What he saw was...shocking, to say the least.

His appearance had been altered to an exponential level, but what was most troubling was the fact that it looked like there was now TWO Antis standing in the bathroom.

Anti had done more than just give Jack a haircut and shave.

He had made Jack look exactly like him. The same hair length and style, the same beard. They looked exactly the same. Well, minus Anti's green hair, darker skin, and slightly taller stature.

“....W-Why?” Jack managed to stutter out.

"Why what?"

"Why did you...do this?"

“You were in dire need of a good shave and cut,” Anti replied, facing Jack and carefully parting the Irishman's hair to the side. Again, another unexpected gesture from the model. “I don't know what's gotten you upset, but I figured...maybe you'd feel a bit better after a fresh cut.”

“But...why did you make me look like you?” The tears started to come back, and Anti frowned when he saw them making their way down Jack's cheeks.

He reached a hand up.

He hesitated.

And he slowly reached forward, gently wiping away a few tears.

“....Figured it'd be a good look for you,” the model responded quietly. He could see the way Jack's watery blue eyes watched him. Anti's mismatched ones stared back.

The air was quiet around them.

Anti's hands were still cupping Jack's cheeks.

The model gave a small cough, clearing his throat and pulling away. “Make sure you shower. I'll go and make some breakfast. And don't even think about having just a piece of toast. You live in this house, you're gonna eat properly.” Anti tightened his own green robe a bit, before swiftly exiting the bathroom.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyyyyyy, finally making progress on the plot! :D Please go easy on me, though...

It turned out that today was a work day for Anti.

Jack was just finishing up his plate of fried eggs and canadian bacon when he caught sight of Anti exiting his bedroom, dressed up in his familiar suit attire and looking rather trim and proper. It was a bit odd to see such a transition. Jack noticed that when Anti was in the confines of his home, he dressed very differently than what his job entailed. In public, he was a model citizen. And at home, he looked like someone who had just popped out of a Hot Topic store. Jack watched as Anti fixed his cuffs and his tie, paying no attention to the Irishman as he approached a mirror and messed with his forest green hair just a bit.

“Work ends for me at 7 PM sharp. Entertain yourself with whatever you want, and try not to mess up my apartment.”

There was that cold tone again. Jack couldn't seem to figure out why Anti would go from cold and cruel, to comforting and understanding in just two seconds flat. The model certainly had an...interesting personality. “....Yes sir,” Jack quietly replied, head down.

Anti gave a tug at his tie and paused. “Feel free to have anything you'd like in the kitchen. I expect you to eat today. I will be making us something special for tonight.”

“Special?”

“There is a new recipe I have been meaning to try. Hoping you might like it.”

Jack gave a small hopeful smile. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

Without another word of reply, Anti grabbed his things, and was out the door in a flash, leaving Jack alone for the first time in the apartment.

It was much quieter than before. Not that Anti spoke much when he was here, but the fact that his physical presence was gone seemed to jar Jack's loneliness in some way. The Irishman sighed. He might as well try and find something to do. He made a beeline for the couch in the living room, snagging the remote and flipping the tv on, to see if there was anything decent to watch. He aimlessly flipped through the channels, stopping on only a few for a total of five seconds, before switching to the next one. He finally settled on a game show, called “Disc Of Riches”. It was nothing more than a cheap knock-off of “Wheel of Fortune”, but Jack could've cared less. He wrapped himself up in a large blanket Anti had given him earlier, and snuggled further into the corner of the couch as he watched a man with a bright pink mustache quiz the three contestants of the show.

It was raining outside again.

Jack turned his head, growing bored of the show as he looked out to a nearby window. The clouds were gray, creating a calming fog just above the high buildings, and little drops of water streaked down across the windows.

Jack sighed.

He still expected himself to be out there, sitting in the rain, getting soaked to the bone...

But now he was here. He had somehow ended up in this fortunate situation. With a man whom he knew nothing about. And Jack still didn't know if he should be relieved...or terrified. Anti had never properly answered him about why he had specifically picked up Jack from the streets. Why was he being so tight-lipped about it? 

Was he secretly planning on taking Jack away to somewhere?

The Irishman shook his head, trying to rid himself of those incoming negative thoughts. It wouldn't be wise to get worked up again over it. His attention was grabbed by the tv, at the sound of gunshots from the show. Apparently the pink mustached host had pulled out a gun and shot two of the contestants. There was screaming, accompanied by the typical laughing track Jack was all too familiar with. Obviously the whole show was just one big act. He gave a half-smile, watching as the host of the show laughed loudly and kept saying “it was just a joke!”.

The show eventually dragged into the next one, and Jack felt his eyelids become heavy. The background sounds of the tv, mixed with the gentle rain outside, was easily lulling him to sleep. He pulled his blanket closer around his shoulders, before stretching out across the couch and making himself comfortable.

He closed his eyes.

\----

Whispering.

There was whispering.

Jack knitted his eyebrows, managing to pull himself out of his sloppy nap. His eyes carefully blinked open; the blurriness of the living room greeting him. His brain was trying to register why he had woken up in the first place.

But then he heard it.

_Whispering._

It almost sounded like someone was in the house. Did Anti come home? No, that couldn't be. It wasn't even 7 PM yet, and there was no sign of forced entry, so there couldn't have been a break-in. Jack tiredly sat himself up, and tuned his ears to listen harder. It almost sounded like...the whispering was coming from more than just one person. An unusual chill ran down Jack's spine, as he stood up and followed the sound.

It was coming from Anti's bedroom.

Jack approached the door, hand shakily hovering above the silver knob. This was definitely an “off limits” area for him. Anti was harsh enough, but if the model knew that Jack had so much as peeked into his bedroom...

Jack shuddered, not wanting to think of what Anti would do to him. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed hold of the door knob and turned it. The door opened effortlessly.

Upon first impressions, Anti's room wasn't really that spectacular. It looked like your typical bachelor's pad, with a small pile of dirty clothes gathering by an over-filled laundry basket, and a few pairs of socks and underwear scattered across the floor.

But then Jack saw it.

A mirror.

There was a full body-length mirror propped up on the far side of the room. And it seemed to stand out from the mess that was Anti's room. Jack grew extremely curious. He stepped further into the room, and walked up to the mirror. It was definitely an antique, Jack deduced just from its appearance. There were intricate etchings in the wood framing it, reminding Jack of the door from The Chronicles of Narnia.

The whispering was suddenly back.

It nearly startled Jack out of his blanket. He gripped the cloth tighter; skin prickling with goosebumps.

It sounded like the whispering was...coming from the mirror? Multiple hushed voices, one talking after another. And it was quiet. So quiet, that Jack couldn't understand what each voice was saying.

He cautiously walked closer to the mirror.

And the whispering suddenly stopped.

Jack held his breath. What did he do? Did he scare it or something?

Suddenly...there was **screaming.**

A scream so high-pitched and gut-twisting, that Jack fell over in fright. He clutched at his ears, the screaming becoming almost deafening. The mirror suddenly cracked. Multiple slivers shooting across the surface of the glass and turning it into a morbid jigsaw puzzle.

Jack managed to find his feet, tripping over his blanket in the process and sprinting out of the room as fast as he could. He slammed the bedroom door shut.

And just like that...all was silent again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I am extremely sorry for how short and pointless this chapter is...
> 
> I am struggling with the plot of this story since I may have already fucked it, along with myself.

Jack was curled up on the couch, trembling.

He hadn't moved from his spot in over an hour, still shaken from the encounter with Anti's mirror.

What the hell had even happened?

What on earth did he witness? Mirrors just didn't whisper on their own, and they definitely didn't scream and fracture themselves into tiny pieces. At first, Jack thought maybe he was delusional. Perhaps he was just tired? Maybe his paranoia of Anti was just getting the better of him. But he _couldn't_ have imagined what just happened. It was real. Very real.

Then another thought hit him.

The mirror had shattered.

Which meant that now Anti would know that Jack had been in his quarters. Or at least had done something wrong.

Fuck.

What was he to do?

He shivered harder, curling up tighter into a ball as he dwelled on the consequences that awaited him.

There was suddenly a knock on the door.

Jack shot up from his position, and looked fearfully at the door, like it was his mortal enemy. He checked the time. It wasn't even 7 PM yet! How could Anti be home already?

The jiggling of the doorknob made Jack's heart rate skyrocket, and then swiftly the sound of it being unlocked. It opened, and surely Jack expected to see Anti come sauntering in.

Instead, to his unusual surprise, it was the driver of Anti's car.

“Hello?” the driver called out.

Jack got up from his seat on the couch, and made himself known. “Uhh...hi?”

The driver seemed to breathe a sudden relief. “Oh thank goodness, you're alright. Mr. Connolly was beginning to become concerned about you.”

“....Mr. Connolly?”

The driver suddenly looked embarrassed. “Oh, apologies. I mean my employer, Anti.”

Huh. Interesting. Jack never knew Anti's last name. Hell, he didn't know Anti's real name to begin with, but this was a start. “Wait, why was he worried about me?” the Irishman asked.

“I am....unsure, sir. He contacted me and asked for me to check on you,” the driver replied. “Said that he had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong.”

“Oh, uh...well, thank you for...checking?”

The driver nodded, and turned to leave.

“Wait wait! I didn't ever catch your name,” Jack was quick to stop him.

The driver looked rather confused at the statement, but Jack watched as his slightly stony gaze brightened a bit with the small smile on his face. “It's Scheid. Mr. Scheid. But you can just call me Tyler. If you'll excuse me, I must get back to work. I'll be sure to let Mr. Connolly know that you are still here and still in one piece.” He gave another friendly nod, before exiting the apartment. Jack opened his mouth, wanting to ask more questions, but the door had already been closed and locked.

He turned his sights to the door to Anti's room.

Did Anti somehow know that Jack had disturbed his mirror? No. That was impossible.

The urge to peek back into the room though was now steadily growing. However, he was still afraid of just what he would see again.

Approaching the door yet again, Jack grabbed the handle and opened it, with a smidge of confidence this time. He was sure he'd shit his pants this time, not like he already had the first time, but now that he knew what waited for him in the room, he seemed to be a bit more determined.

Jack poked his head in, looking across the room to see where the mirror stood on the far side.

It wasn't broken.

Wait.

_It wasn't broken?_

Jack narrowed his eyes. He thought it maybe to be a trick of the light. How was that possible? He had clearly seen the mirror fracture itself into bits. And now it was just...magically fixed? The Irishman shook his head. Get this magical nonsense shit out of your head, he told himself. Maybe he _had_ just imagined it in his panic and fear at the time.

But then how would that explain the whispering and the screams he heard?

Jack was beginning to give himself a headache. He gave an exasperated sigh, and closed the door again. Best not to worry about it now. What mattered now was making sure that Anti didn't know that Jack had been snooping.

The Irishman deposited himself back onto the couch, and turned the TV back on, hoping to distract himself.

He could've sworn he could still hear the whispers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of spawned out of my own recent experiences I've have in the past few days. Plus, there is fluff to be had, since this story is in dire need of it.

Anti anxiously bounced his knee in the car, hoping that Tyler could at least try to drive a little faster. The model had managed to leave work a bit earlier that evening. His nerves had been steadily growing ever since he got that unexpected but uneasy feeling about something happening to Jack. He tried not to fear the worse, especially since Tyler had checked on the boy for him.

Still, concern was brewing in him as the car was pulled to a stop and he undid his seatbelt. He didn't even wait for Tyler to come and open his door for him. He exited the car swiftly and caught the elevator seconds before it closed.

Fishing his keys from his pocket, Anti unlocked the door and entered inside.

“Jack?” he immediately called out upon stepping in, hoping that he wouldn't find the Irishman dead on the floor or worse. The sound of the TV being on caught his attention, though.

He found Jack sitting on the couch, still wrapped up in the blanket he had given him yesterday. Anti gave a quiet sigh of relief, seeing that the man was still in one piece. Though the TV appeared to be on, Jack himself didn't seem to be watching it. He appeared to be staring at the wall, and Anti watched as the Irishman's eyes suddenly darted to him.

Jack looked...shaken.

“....Everything alright?” the model asked, reaching down and picking up the TV remote, switching the device off.

“Huh?! Oh uhh...y-yeah. I'm fine...”

Anti could easily hear the man lying through his teeth. He slightly glared. “You know, you really suck at lying.”

“I'm...I'm not lying!”

“Then what has you on edge? I'm not stupid, Jack. And if you think that I'm dumb enough to believe your foolish rambling...” Anti trailed off in his statement, when he realized that Jack seemed to be panicking. He could hear the Irishman's breaths quickening.

“Jack? Jack, listen to me. Breathe.”

He was quick to sit down beside the other, placing his hands on his shoulders and having Jack face him. The Irishman was having a full blown panic attack. “Jack. Jack, look at me,” Anti tried to get the other to focus on him. “Breathe. In through your nose, and out through your mouth. One breath at a time.”

Jack couldn't stop shaking. His breathing started to turn erratic, and he suddenly swayed dangerously in his spot. Anti's heart nearly stopped. He couldn't afford to have Jack passing out like this. The model did not hesitate and grabbed Jack, holding the Irishman in his arms and as close as possible to his chest.

He could feel how Jack shook violently against him.

The corners of Anti's eyes burned, and he squinted them shut, holding Jack as close as he could and gently running his fingers through the man's hair. “Breathe, Jack, please. It's gonna be alright. You're okay. You're okay.” He began a steady rock, keeping Jack against him and slowly moving his body, hoping the motions would calm the Irishman, like how a mother would comfort her child.

Jack's breathing finally began to slow, and his shaking was starting to subside.

Anti helped him into a more comfortable position, having the man lie down on his lap, still stroking his hair and carefully keeping his head at a safe level. He watched as Jack curled into him, burying his face into the model's stomach. It caused a small blush to taint Anti's cheeks. The model quietly cleared his throat, and kept Jack in that safe position. It seemed to be working. He suddenly heard Jack mumble against his suit.

“I...had a nightmare. About a mirror...”

Anti's grip on Jack unexpectedly tightened. When he heard the other give a quiet, pained whine in response, he inwardly scolded himself and loosened his grip. The model was silent for a minute.

“How are you feeling?” he finally asked, looking down at Jack who was still curled up against him. The Irishman brought his face out of hiding, managing to look up at Anti's multicolored eyes. It was still strange to see something like that. But it was even more strange when Jack realized what Anti had done.

He had consoled him. He had made Jack feel safe, when Jack felt like his own world was falling apart.

And what's more, the model had physically comforted him too.

That realization alone made Jack's heart flutter.

“Better...” he finally replied. “You...You didn't--”

“Have to help you?” Anti interrupted, already knowing what the brown-haired man was thinking. “You were struggling to hold yourself together. If I had done nothing, you probably would have gotten yourself hurt. And...” the model paused, trying to find the right words. “It's hard for me to see you suffering. I...want to make sure that you're taken care of.

“...Is that why you have me here? Why I'm...living here with you?”

Anti chewed his lower lip only slightly, and gave a small nod.

“But you know nothing about me.”

“Well...” it was here that Anti adverted his eyes. “I would not mind in...getting to know you better. If that's alright with you, of course.”

Jack felt his heart flutter again. _Strange..._

“Well, can I get to know more about you in return?” the Irishman asked. “Seems like a fair trade,” he added with a quiet chuckle.

Anti found himself staring at Jack.

Silence.

“...Anti?”

The model blinked twice. “Y-Yes. Yes, of course. A fair trade, just like you said.” He watched as Jack smiled.

It was such a pure expression. Those stunning ocean eyes beaming back at him.

He was...beautiful.

Anti cleared his throat again, catching himself staring and gently easing Jack off of his lap, as he went to stand and fixed his rumpled tie. “Now then, I'll see to cooking that new recipe.”

Jack only kept smiling. “Sounds good to me.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm so sorry that it's been taking me forever in a day to get these chapters up. The drive to continue this story has been slowly dwindling, and I'm running on fumes at this point.
> 
> Apologies for the short-ass chapter...

The following days that passed were...uneventful at best.

It was the same old routine. With Anti going to work and Jack being left home alone. The model had recently given the Irishman a few books to read to pass the time, though. Anti was a fan of Stephen King, and so was Jack as he found out. Anti would eventually return home, cook a meal for him and Jack, and then the two of them would keep to themselves afterwards.

But as this routine kept on repeating, it caused more questions and thoughts to stir within their brains.

They had agreed to get to know each other better in order to prevent fear and suspicion, but they were doing a pretty poor job at it. Anti had been growing more and more curious about Jack, still wondering how the Irishman ended up on the streets. The boy was twenty eight years old and didn't appear to have any substance abuse issues. And he wasn't running from the law, either. He seemed pretty capable of taking care of himself. Often when people ended up homeless, it would either be because they were kicked out of their previous home....or because they had lost everything.

So how did Jack end up on his own?

Anti figured it had something to do with that backpack he carried around with him. Ever since the model had taken him in, Jack seemed to have a death grip on the thing, never letting go of it and never letting it out of his sight. He even took it with him when he went to the bathroom.

Something in that tattered bag obviously held great importance to Jack.

And Anti was burning with curiosity of just what was in it.

It was raining again that afternoon. Anti had the day off, so he chose to spend his time at home like he usually did. Jack was watching the tv again, having grown attached to the device, especially to the “Disc Of Riches” show, which Anti found to be incredibly stupid. He paid no mind to what Jack liked though. He busied himself with cleaning his room, hoping to the pass the time in some way other than cooking, picking up what dirty clothes were strewn about on the carpet and reminding himself to do a load of laundry.

His keen ears suddenly picked up the sound of Jack leaving the couch, and then the bathroom door closing. The Irishman was either taking a piss or a shower. He poked his head out of his bedroom to glance at the empty couch.

It wasn't empty.

Jack's backpack was sitting on it. For once the other man had not taken it with him. And Anti took this rare opportunity to investigate.

Silently moving from his room, Anti snagged the bag from the couch. It was much lighter than he had expected, like there was only a single object sitting in it. He carefully unzipped it, hoping Jack hadn't heard the growl of the zipper.

He reached in.

And he pulled out a picture frame.

Huh, well...definitely wasn't expecting that.

The photo was old and a little bit dusty, as Anti licked his thumb and gave a brief swipe across the picture, clearing away the grime. It was a picture of a family from the looks of it. A man and woman standing side by side, with the happiest grins on their faces. Positioned right in front of them were three small children. Two boys and one girl.

Anti peered closer.

One of those boys was Jack.

“WHAT THE FUCK!!! GIVE THAT BACK TO ME!!!!”

Speaking of Jack....

Anti whirled around, very much embarrassed to be caught snooping as he saw Jack standing but a few feet away from him. The boy looked horrified and shocked. When Anti didn't respond, the Irishman practically charged him, harshly shoving the model to the side and grabbing the picture out of his captor's hands.

“Don't touch this! DON'T YOU _EVER_ FUCKING TOUCH THIS!!!” Jack nearly screamed, holding the picture as close as possible to his chest. He was shaking, and tears were already running down his cheeks. “WHY WERE YOU LOOKING THROUGH MY STUFF?! WHY?!”

Anti felt his own rage bubbling to the surface, not appreciating being yelled at. “You've been keeping secrets from me! You never fucking tell me anything about you, or how you ended up living on the streets! You left me no fucking choice but to go through your bag! For all I know, you could've been hiding a goddamn head in it!!!”

“How the fuck do you think _I_ feel?!” Jack shouted back, stepping away from Anti further and further. “You think I'M the only one hiding something?! You've been nothing but a fucking cryptic to me! I don't know a fucking thing about you and you refuse to tell me ANYTHING!!! I'm living with a fucking STRANGER WHO COULD FUCKING KILL ME FOR ALL I KNOW!!!”

“ENOUGH with the false accusations! Christ, are you really THAT fucking paranoid about me?!” Anti stepped closer, with every step that Jack took backwards.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Jack shrieked, as his back met the front door. “ _LEAVE ME ALONE!!!_ ” His hand blindly grabbed for the door handle behind him. He managed to jiggle it open, practically falling over as the door swung wide open, before he found his feet and sprinted off.

“JACK! COME BACK HERE!” Anti had barely gotten a foot out of the door, before Jack found the emergency stairs exit and escaped.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm so sorry for making you all wait so long for this fucking thing to be updated. Shit has been pretty bad and I've had the worst writer's block. But by some miracle, I managed to get this chapter churned out.

Jack didn't look back.

He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, far from Anti, far from the building that he had almost called 'home'. He splashed through puddles created by the consistent rain, with his socks becoming soaked within seconds. He had dashed out of the building so suddenly that he hadn't even grabbed the shoes Anti had given him a few days ago.

But Jack didn't care. 

All he cared about right now was getting far away from the very man who had snatched him off of the streets. He still clutched his bag and picture frame close to his chest, continuing to run until his lungs burned and his legs begged for a respite. He didn't know where he was. Jack had run farther than he expected. But he needed to catch his breath. He quickly turned a corner, heading down an alleyway that was snug between two old buildings, and he sat down, not caring in the slightest that he was soaking wet and unshielded from the rain.

The Irishman tried to calm his heart. He was confused. Hurt. And scared. He tried to make sense of what had just happened. No one had ever seen that picture frame in his bag. Ever. Jack had always kept it safe and hidden from prying eyes ever since he ended up on his own. So why had Anti decided to snoop? Was the model going to use it as bait of some sort to trap him? Was he going to destroy it without Jack knowing? The Irishman looked down at the photo. Droplets of water splashed onto it, streaking down the frame. His heart ached, seeing those familiar faces. How they stared back at him, joyful and beaming. Smiles forever frozen in time. What a difference it was, to see those smiles, when the last time he had seen those faces, they had been anything but happy. A sob caught in Jack's throat, as he gripped the picture and hugged it tightly. He didn't belong with Anti. He didn't belong with a complete stranger who knew nothing about him, about his past, about what he had done. And even still...he didn't belong with his family. He would never belong.

Jack had to convince himself that he was fated to forever live alone on the streets. This is what he deserved. He knew it. He was certain. Never again would he accept help from another stranger. Never again would he agree to get into an unknown car and be carted off to a life of luxury.

He didn't deserve it.

Jack's body was exhausted; worn thin from his panicked sprint and gripped by the cold rain. He couldn't find it in himself to care that he was starting to doze off, eyelids growing heavy. Nor did he care that he was out in the open, completely unprotected from the world around him. He fell over onto his side, crumpled up in a dirty puddle, still clutching the photo.

And he slept.

\-----

When morning came, Jack found himself in the same routine. Even after living in the comfort of an actual home, it did nothing to change what he knew what to do every morning. He had woken up with a start, body freezing and teeth chattering. It was paramount that he find some new clothes. Or rather, something warm to wrap himself up in. He had been fortunate enough to find some tattered over-sized boots close to the area where he had fallen asleep. They had holes in them, but he could've cared less. Jack scoured the area, unfamiliar with this new territory. He walked around for a bit, trying to get his bearings and figure out just how far he had ran. He seemed to be in the seedier side of town. Precisely the area he had been avoiding for most of his life when living on the streets. He knew he couldn't stay, but also knew that if he didn't find some dry clothes soon, he would no doubt get sick. He couldn't afford to get sick now.

Jack walked up and down the streets, searching in his brain on where to possibly find new clothes. Should he maybe consult another homeless person? See if they had any extra clothing? No. That wouldn't be fair. He'd simply be taking something of theirs and leaving them in the same situation as him. He kept walking. There was also the possibility of searching the garbage. Jack opened some large containers up, digging through to see if anything good had been thrown out. He scored a semi-soggy cookie and some chicken tenders that didn't look too bad, but alas, no clothes. After sifting through some more trashcans, Jack gave up, and kept walking. The rain was coming down harder now, and Jack's teeth chattered loudly. He really needed to find some shelter. A flashing neon sign caught his attention with the words 'OPEN'. Not giving a second thought, the Irishman quickly ducked inside.

He found himself inside a laundromat.

Well, not the best place for shelter, but at least it was warm and dry. Hopefully he wouldn't be shooed out. He could at least stay here for a bit.

Jack sat himself down in a chair; his clothes making an embarrassing sloshing sound. He couldn't stop shaking. Fuck. The homeless man's eyes scanned the place, seeing a few people standing around, idling on their phones. Some were sitting, patiently waiting for their clothes to be finished. Jack noticed a young man standing up, and approaching one of the washers. He had pulled out a couple of damp clothes, and tossed them into the dryer. After that, he sat back down and pulled out his phone, with his back to the dryer.

Jack bounced his knee, watching that dryer. His eyes nervously glanced to the young man. There were a million voices in Jack's head, screaming at him not to do it. That he was better than this, that he shouldn't even consider stealing. The Irishman sat there for a little while longer, contemplating. He shivered. He swallowed, throat dry. Fingers fidgeted and twitched. Knee still bouncing. Only the sound of machinery.

Then a familiar beep.

Jack was exceptionally fast. Or at least tried to be. He shot out of his chair and sprinted to the dryer, swinging the door open and snatching the clothes, in time to hear the waiting young man shout out “HEY!!!”

Jack darted out of that place as fast as a panicked rabbit, practically crashing through the door and sprinting down the street. His heart pounded in his chest and once again, he didn't look back. 

He had what he needed.


	12. Chapter 12

Jack never thought of himself as a thief.

His conscience was still jabbing at him for stealing those clothes. Why the hell had he done that? Jack knew that he was better than this. Was it just outright desperation? Well...at least it wasn’t another homeless person’s clothing. That thought made Jack feel just a bit better. After throwing on his new clothes, the Irishman focused on trekking back to the portion of the city he was familiar with. He knew the folks in that area, as well as the restaurants and other businesses. Hopefully once he was there, he’d feel a bit more at home again.

Dark rain clouds filled up every space in the sky, casting an unpleasant shadow onto the city. The rain beat down onto Jack, but he was used to it at this point. He had endured the showers for so long, he could easily do it again. Though he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting to what it was like to not have the rain pouring down onto him. Simply watching it streak against windows, belonging to a fancy apartment, where a mysterious man took care of him. Jack shook his head. No. He didn’t want to think about Anti again. That strange man. That one individual who turned their attention onto him. And for what reason? Jack wasn’t the only homeless person living on these streets. Anti could’ve easily taken anyone but him. There was nothing special about Jack, he knew this. So why had Anti shown such interest in him? Why had the model bothered to shelter and care for him?

The questions merely piled on top of one another, and Jack was so distracted and lost in his own mind that he didn’t even see the group of men he had suddenly bumped into. The man he collided with dropped something and cursed loudly.

“What the fuck, man?!”

Jack quickly looked down, and saw a small open bag of white substance now soaking into the wet sidewalk. He had little time to react when a hand wrapped tightly around his neck and he was forced up against a wall.

“You fucking piece of shit! Do you have any fucking idea how much I paid for that?!” the man accused. The other dealers around him were also shouting. Some angry, and some encouraging him.

Shit, shit, shit.

This was one of the groups of dealers that Jack had tried to avoid all this time. The hand around his throat gripped harder and thrusted him against the bricks, causing Jack’s vision to spin from the impact.

“Did you fucking hear me?!” the attacker questioned.

“Get his wallet. Maybe he’s got something,” another one of the men suggested.

A hand went to dig into Jack’s back pocket, but the Irishman’s fight-or-flight instinct seemed to have been triggered to the highest degree the moment he felt that hand come close to his ass.

“GET OFF!!!” Jack exclaimed, raising his knees to try and kick the offender away, while his free hands reached out and grabbed what they could. He caught the man in his shin, forcing him to weaken his hold around Jack’s neck for just a moment. Jack tried to struggle free, but was immediately punched in the gut. He felt oxygen leave his lungs in a dizzying, painful burst. But it didn’t stop there. There was another punch to his cheek. And then another one to his stomach. He was thrown onto the ground; dirty water escaping into his mouth as he coughed hoarsely.

“Little pussy ass bitch, thought you could get away with fucking up my shit?” the attacker sneered.

“Kick him again!”

A foot collided with Jack’s head, and the Irishman saw blackness as blunt pain tore at his nerves. There was another kick to his stomach, and a weak sound left him.

“HEY!!!”

The kicking stopped, and Jack would've breathed a sigh of relief if his body wasn’t shriveling in pain. A loud voice had called the attention of the dealers.

“Leave him alone.”

Jack’s heart rate suddenly skyrocketed even further. He knew that voice. Through blurred vision, he could make out Anti’s familiar emerald green hair. The model was approaching the group of men.

“The fuck is this? Piss off, ya motherfuckin’ pansy!” Jack’s attacker dismissed. “This shithead your fuck boy or somethin’?”

The Irishman watched as the men advanced closer to Anti, surrounding him.

“I said leave him the fuck alone. Don’t you fuckers have anything better to do?” Anti lowly spoke, venom lacing his voice.

Jack flinched when he saw one of the men sock Anti in the face. Another one grabbed the model by the collar of his suit and punched him again. But Anti wasn’t gonna go down without a fight. The model fought back, dealing devastating punches in return, and Jack was forced to watch as the group eventually overwhelmed him. They had thrown Anti to the ground, just like they had done to Jack, and began kicking him in the stomach, over and over again.

Something in Jack stirred, and he lifted his head, coughing out “STOP!!!”

He begged them. They didn’t stop. The pummeling seemed endless, and Jack feared that they would kill Anti. But finally after one last kick, the beatings ceased. One of the men lifted Anti's head up painfully by the hair, laughing and spitting in his face.

"Still think you're all high and mighty, huh little pussy?" they asked. Jack could see how battered Anti's face was. His cheeks were swollen and one of his eyes was bruised a harsh purple. But the model showed no hurt. In fact, he looked like he was ready to _kill_. Anti's only functioning eye stared back at the attackers, and Jack suddenly felt a horrible chill race down his spine at the sight. The man holding Anti's hair unexpectedly dropped him, like he had been burned, and quickly backed up.

"Wh-What the fuck?!"

The others around him didn't seem to be getting it. "The fuck is your problem?" one of them asked.

"Dude, wh-what the fuck," the scared man stammered. He began to shake, backing up further from Anti. "Who...Who the fuck is this guy?!"

Whatever had caused the shift in atmosphere now seemed to latch onto the other attackers. They began to show signs of great fear, each one of them immediately distancing themselves from Anti.

"I-I fucking pissed myself! What the fuck is this?!"

"Dude, l-let's get the fuck out of here! I don't wanna die!!!"

With a look of shock, Jack watched as each of the men darted off, like pathetic dogs with their tails between their legs.


End file.
